Hawks - Blog Posts
Fantasy AU no one asked for. King Dragon!Enji and his trusted general Griffin!Hawks
drew my favorite bird to test yet another drawing program
just one new and one really old sketches of my favorite birdie, ‘cause i gotta post them somewhere
Inspired by this
Dabi would 100% steal all of the food
I need more interactions of these two
mha au where ochako and hawks team up to help each other get with their crush
Yo, can we talk about how ochakos bday is DEC 27 while Hawks is DEC 28? Like I know, to the average hawks and ochako enjoyer, this has no meaning, but their relationship to me is so special because it's shown in multiple shots that Hawks admires Uravitys heroism Ochako is everything keigo wants to be but can't, and that's just so special to me.
A random meme that would only make sense if u read my fic. (For The Departed by queen_ochako on Ao3)
alley rose | k. takami
you know he's not yours, but you'd still pick him in every lifetime. the worst part? he'd let you. (2785 words)
you never meant to fall into it.
and maybe that's the problem.
because things that fall tend to break, and you? you've never been particularly good at knowing when to catch yourself.
it starts with nothing. not even a spark, not a clear moment. no dramatic beginning. no pivotal shift in atmosphere. he just... shows up one night. stands in the doorway of your apartment with wind in his hair and fatigue under his eyes and a grin that looks like it's trying to apologize for both.
you don't remember who invited him. maybe he just appeared. you wouldn't put it past him.
you only remember letting him in.
he takes up space easily. like he's always belonged there. like the couch remembers his weight. like your walls never had a choice in loving the sound of his voice.
he doesn't say much. he never really has to.
he leans against the kitchen counter while you make tea, not even asking what kind, just accepting the mug with his usual crooked smile and a quiet, "you're a saint."
he doesn't drink it.
he just holds it between his hands, steam rising between his fingers like an offering he doesn't quite believe he deserves.
you sit in silence for a while. the kind of silence that feels earned. he doesn't fill it with nonsense. he lets it exist between you, thick and soft and settled like dust on a bookshelf no one has the heart to clean.
"you don't sleep much, huh?" he says eventually, with the kind of voice that makes the night lean in to listen.
you shrug. "not when the world's this loud."
he nods like he understands. like he feels it too. maybe he does.
he spends the night—not in your bed, never in your bed—but on the couch. boots off, one arm lazily thrown over his eyes like the darkness is too much. there's tension in his shoulders even when he sleeps.
you watch him from the doorway longer than you should. tell yourself it's because he's in your home. that you're being cautious.
it's not that.
it's never that.
₊˚⊹ ᰔ
he returns three nights later.
you don't ask why.
he starts showing up regularly. not every night, but often enough that you start leaving the door unlocked out of habit. he never uses a key. he always knocks, even when it's past midnight, even when you're both pretending he hasn't been there three times this week.
he doesn't talk about work. never talks about heroes or headlines or what happens after he walks out of your door and lets the world chew him up again.
you don't ask.
you offer him a space. warmth. the silence he pretends not to need.
he offers... something else. something half-shaped. a hand on your back when you pass each other in the kitchen. a smirk when you call him out on it. snacks left on the counter. a blanket draped over your shoulders when you fall asleep on the couch, though he'll swear it wasn't him.
and one night, when you're both sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor with half a bottle of something nameless between you, he leans in and kisses you.
it's not hungry. not sharp. not even all that deep.
it's lazy. gentle. like he forgot himself and remembered you in the same breath.
when he pulls back, he just grins. "nice lips," he murmurs. "don't let anyone tell you different."
and then he's gone.
you press your fingers to your mouth and pretend it didn't mean anything. pretend it was just a drunk impulse. a thing he does. a fluke.
you tell yourself it won't happen again.
it does.
not the kiss—but the weight of it. the imprint.
the moments start to blur together. late night dinners. half-slept mornings. you learn the exact sound his jacket makes when it hits your couch. the rhythm of his breath when he falls asleep sitting up. the way his voice drops when he's tired, softening like he's forgotten he's not supposed to be real around you.
you learn how to love him without touching him.
he makes it easy.
₊˚⊹ ᰔ
you don't talk about what this is.
not once.
not when he brings you takeout and eats with you in silence. not when he falls asleep with his head on your shoulder. not when he disappears for four days and comes back without a word and looks at you like he never left.
you tell yourself it doesn't matter.
because he's not cruel.
he never leads you on—not really. never calls you his. never asks you to stay. never says he loves you.
he just makes it feel like he does.
and maybe that's worse.
maybe if he'd been colder, you would've walked away by now. maybe if he'd kissed you like he didn't mean it, you wouldn't still taste him in your coffee. maybe if he didn't smile like you were the only person in the room—maybe then you'd be able to sleep at night without checking your phone for his name.
but he does. and you can't.
you try to pretend it's fine.
you're adults. capable of detachment. you know how this goes. some people just need somewhere to land. someone who doesn't ask questions. someone who lets them rest.
you can be that.
and for a while, you convince yourself you're okay with it.
because sometimes he looks at you and you think—maybe.
maybe this could be something.
maybe he just needs time.
maybe you're the only one who sees him like this—tired and soft and human.
maybe that matters.
₊˚⊹ ᰔ
one night, he cooks for you.
it's a disaster. the pasta overboils, the sauce burns, and he sets off your smoke alarm because he forgets how sensitive it is.
you sit on the floor with him, coughing and laughing, fanning smoke with a magazine while he yells at your ceiling.
when it finally clears, he sits beside you. knees touching. arms brushing. smelling like burnt garlic and relief.
he doesn't kiss you that night.
but he falls asleep in your lap, and you thread your fingers through his hair and pretend he's yours.
he's not.
but he lets you pretend.
₊˚⊹ ᰔ
"you're good at this," he says once, curled up in your blanket, the ends of his hair brushing your collarbone.
"what?"
"letting me stay."
you don't answer.
he doesn't expect you to.
˚⊹ ᰔ
you kiss again, weeks later.
it's different.
it's not light or easy or careless. it's slow. warm. aching.
he holds your face like it's glass. kisses you like he's afraid to stop. touches you like he's saying something he doesn't have the words for.
and afterward, he rests his forehead against yours and murmurs, "you always feel like home."
and you wonder if maybe this is something.
maybe this is real.
but then he gets up. leaves without looking back. and you stay awake all night, staring at the ceiling, wondering what you did wrong.
˚⊹ ᰔ
your friends start to notice.
"you've been distracted," one of them says.
"i'm fine," you lie.
they don't press. but they look at you like they know.
you delete the messages you want to send him. never hit call. never ask where he is when he disappears for days, weeks, reappears with new bruises and an easy smile and nothing in his eyes.
you pretend not to care.
but your hands shake when you wash his mug.
˚⊹ ᰔ
he shows up again.
you open the door. he looks tired.
you don't ask why.
he leans against the frame like he belongs there. like he knows you'll let him in.
and you do.
he doesn't kiss you this time. doesn't speak.
he just lays beside you on the couch. not touching. not sleeping. just breathing.
you turn your head.
he doesn't look at you.
you wonder if he's already left.
˚⊹ ᰔ
you don't remember the last time he said your name.
you don't remember the last time you said no.
˚⊹ ᰔ
there's no end. not yet.
there's just the quiet stretch of something wearing thin. the slow suffocation of wanting too much from someone who never offered you anything in the first place.
you tell yourself it's fine.
you knew what this was.
he never said it would be more.
but you wish—god, you wish—he hadn't made it feel so much like love.
because now, you don't know how to unfeel it.
you don't know how to stop opening the door when he knocks. how to stop hearing your name in the silence between his sentences. how to stop hoping.
and worst of all?
you don't want to.
not yet.
maybe not ever.
˚⊹ ᰔ
you don't talk about it.
the situation. the dynamic. the... thing between you.
there's no language for it. not really.
it's not a relationship. not a friendship. not even a fling.
but it's something. it has weight. it has presence. it takes up room in your life and your chest and your plans and your future in the way real things are supposed to. only it doesn't behave like something real. it behaves like a ghost with too much nerve. a shadow that leaves fingerprints on your heart but disappears when the light comes on.
you try to explain it to a friend once. someone who notices the way you pause when your phone buzzes. the way your smile flickers when it doesn't.
"is it serious?" they ask.
you open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
because how do you explain it? how do you articulate the emotional toll of being almost loved?
so you shrug. "it's nothing."
you lie.
but you shouldn't have to.
˚⊹ ᰔ
hawks—no, keigo, because he insists you call him that when you're alone, like that somehow makes him more honest—isn't cruel.
that's what you keep coming back to.
he never promises you anything. never strings you along with declarations or dates or matching mugs in the cupboard. he doesn't label this. doesn't even try.
but he lets you sit close. lets you hold his wrist when he's pacing and won't tell you what's wrong. lets you run your fingers through his hair when he comes back with blood under his nails.
he lets you treat him like someone you love.
and in return?
he lets you pretend he loves you back.
˚⊹ ᰔ
you try to find clarity in the small things.
like in the way he leans toward you in crowds. the way his eyes soften when he hands you a drink. the way he listens when you talk about things that don't matter.
but the truth is, affection doesn't equal intention.
and you're tired of translating his silence into possibility.
˚⊹ ᰔ
he disappears for two weeks.
no warning. no explanation. just gone.
the first few days you check your phone constantly. reread old messages. try to remember if you said something wrong. if you asked for too much. if he finally got bored of the emotional middle ground you let him live in.
the silence grows louder.
by the time the seventh day passes, it becomes a roar in your head.
you don't call. you don't text.
you tell yourself it's a boundary.
it's not. it's fear.
because if you reach out first, you won't like the answer.
˚⊹ ᰔ
he shows up on a tuesday.
doesn't knock. just opens your door like nothing's happened. like it hasn't been days since he last looked at you. like he didn't vanish into the wind and leave you to rot in your own expectations.
he drops his bag by the couch. throws himself down and stretches like a cat, muscles flexing under his shirt, wings shifting slightly.
"miss me?" he says with a grin.
your heart cracks. so quietly, so precisely, you barely feel it.
you sit beside him. don't say anything.
he throws an arm around your shoulder like this is normal. like you're normal.
"sorry," he says casually. "work stuff."
you nod.
he doesn't elaborate.
you don't ask.
and the silence between you stops being safe. it becomes suffocating.
˚⊹ ᰔ
you start pulling away in increments.
you don't make him tea anymore when he shows up. you don't wait for him to call. you stop folding his jacket when he leaves it draped over your chair. you stop making room in your drawer for the little things he forgets behind.
and he notices. of course he does.
he notices the tension in your jaw when he touches you. the fact that you turn your face away when he leans in like he might kiss you. the way you no longer meet his eyes when you say goodnight.
he doesn't say anything.
but one night, when you're both watching some movie neither of you are paying attention to, he speaks into the dark.
"you okay?"
you hesitate.
then: "i'm tired."
he hums. "long day?"
you don't answer, and he doesn't ask again.
˚⊹ ᰔ
your friends start asking questions. real ones.
"is this working for you?" "what do you want out of this?" "are you happy?"
you laugh them off.
but the ache in your chest lingers.
because no. you're not happy. not really.
you're in love with someone who only shows up when it's convenient. who never shares the parts of himself that matter. who touches you with familiar hands but guards his heart like it's state property.
and you? you've built a home out of his shadows. you've memorized a version of him that doesn't even belong to you.
you don't want to do this anymore.
˚⊹ ᰔ
but you still do.
because it's better than nothing.
because the alternative is letting him go.
and that feels like losing something you never got to keep in the first place.
˚⊹ ᰔ
then one night, it changes.
not loudly. not dramatically.
just... changes.
you're sitting on the floor again, legs stretched in front of you, a blanket around your shoulders and the tv on low. keigo's beside you, but not touching. for once, there's real distance.
you glance at him.
he's staring at the screen, eyes unfocused.
you don't recognize his expression.
you whisper, "why do you keep coming here?"
he blinks. looks at you. "what do you mean?"
you shrug. "i mean... you never talk. you disappear. you show up without warning. and i let you. every time. i don't ask for anything, and you know that."
he stays quiet.
"so why do you keep coming back?"
the silence stretches. you think maybe he won't answer.
then he says, soft: "because you're the only place i don't have to lie."
your stomach twists.
because that should mean something. it almost does.
but then you realize—
he's not saying he wants you. he's saying he likes what you give him.
peace. comfort. quiet.
you're not a person to him. you're a haven.
and he never had any intention of staying.
you breathe in, slowly, and nod.
"okay."
he looks at you, confused. "okay?"
you stand. your knees ache. your chest does too.
"you can go now."
he rises slowly, uncertainty flickering across his face for the first time. "what?"
you repeat it. "you can go."
he studies you. then smiles, like it's a joke. "don't be dramatic."
you stare at him. "i'm not."
something in his expression falters. "look," he says. "i didn't mean to—"
"i know," you say. "that's the problem."
he goes quiet again.
you continue, softer now. "you didn't mean to kiss me. or stay. or sleep here. or come back. or look at me like that. or make me feel like you wanted something real. and you think that's enough. that because you never said you cared, you didn't have to."
his mouth opens, then closes.
you're tired. so, so tired.
"you never had to lie to hurt me, keigo," you whisper. "you just had to let me believe you wanted me here."
he doesn't argue. he doesn't reach for you. he just stands there.
quiet.
just like always.
you don't ask him again to leave.
he just does. eventually.
without slamming the door. without saying goodbye.
and maybe that's what breaks you.
because there's nothing dramatic to hold on to. no final fight. no angry words. no declarations.
just absence.
and that hurts more than anything else.
˚⊹ ᰔ
you sit in the quiet after he's gone. your blanket falls off your shoulders and you don't pick it up. you sit there until the sun starts to rise.
and when your phone buzzes hours later, you don't check it.
because you already know—
it's not him.
it never really was.
signed, sealed, unprofessional | k. takami
in which your job is to manage keigo takami's modeling career, not his flirtation habit—but unfortunately, he's extremely good at both.
user error | k. takami
⇨ as the ceo of a tech company for pro heroes, you’re used to dealing with malfunctions—just not one with wings and a flirting problem
fem dabihawks vs angels au
the dabihawks brain rot is so real
𝐊𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐎 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐈 (𝐇𝐀𝐖𝐊𝐒) 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒:
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: 𝐡𝐚𝐰𝐤𝐬 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐤𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐨 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐦𝐢 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐤𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐨 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐦𝐢 (𝐡𝐚𝐰𝐤𝐬) 𝐱 𝐩𝐫𝐨-𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨! 𝐠𝐧! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
MEETING HAWKS:
he clocks you immediately during a hero meeting. it's not just your hero costume (though, let's be real, he appreciates a good design). he's sizing you up strategically, noting your power, your demeanor, and how you interact with the other heroes. it's professional... at first.
your first real conversation happens during a joint mission. maybe you're both tracking a villain known for their swift escapes, and you end up covering the rooftops together.
he'll make a comment about your performance in the mission. he will call you by 'miss/sir', as it is only professional. but he will compliment you, no matter what goes wrong.
he's observant. he notices small details about you – the way you handle your quirk, the way you interact with civilians, even the brand of coffee you're sipping. this info goes straight into his mental file labeled "things i find interesting about [reader's hero name]."
he's testing the waters, dropping subtle hints. a casual "maybe we should grab coffee sometime and compare notes?" is pure hawks – playing it cool while secretly wanting to know everything about you.
HAWKS CRUSHING ON YOU:
he starts "coincidentally" showing up where you are. training facilities, hero galas, even that one yakitori place you love. he'll play it off as being in the area, but we all know better.
teasing. SO MUCH TEASING. he'll poke fun at your hero name, your costume quirks, anything he can get away with. but it's always lighthearted and playful, never mean-spirited. it's his way of gauging your reactions and pushing your buttons (in a good way, of course).
feather messages become your new norm. they arrive at your agency, your apartment, maybe even during a stakeout. short, silly notes or helpful Intel, always signed with a mischievous feather flourish.
he seeks you out specifically during large gatherings. he is a social butterfly, but he will try to talk to you. he will always try to have you close to him than other people.
he starts confiding in you about the commission, about his doubts and worries. he doesn't do this with just anyone. you're earning his trust, and with keigo, that's a BIG deal.
DATING HAWKS:
dates are never stuffy or predictable. think rooftop picnics with a city view, late-night patrols fueled by convenience store snacks, and impromptu karaoke sessions. he keeps it fun and spontaneous.
He's a toucher. a hand on your back, a playful nudge, a casual arm around your shoulders. nothing too intense, but always a reminder that he's there and he's into you.
PDA is subtle but sweet. no grand gestures, but you might find him absentmindedly playing with your hair while you're talking, or leaning in close to whisper something in your ear.
he sends you pictures of chickens. sometimes he “finds” them on the side of the street. or see them in the pet store. if he does see chickens, he will send it to you.
he opens up more about his past, about his fears and his dreams. he is still guarded, but he lets you see glimpses of the real keigo takami, the one behind the wings and the bravado.
he's fiercely protective. Not in a controlling way, but he's always looking out for you, making sure you're safe and comfortable. he'll take on any villain who dares to threaten you.
he makes corny jokes, especially chicken/bird-related ones.
he will make you feel the safest you've ever felt in your life. after everything he has went through, he will try to protect you with his life.
falling asleep on his wings is the best thing ever. just don't be surprised when you wake up covered in feathers.
© 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐙𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 —
𝑴𝑯𝑨 𝑩𝒐𝒚𝒔' 𝑰𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒎 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒔. 𝑷𝒕.𝟐!
𝑴𝑯𝑨 𝑩𝒐𝒚𝒔' 𝑰𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒎 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒔 𝑷𝒕.𝟐! (Pt.3) (pt.1)
I fear I may be a Hawks apologist, which I didn’t know was a thing until yesterday 😙
Always!! Yk ik I love my heartbreaking ships!! Especially when they weren’t canon!!!! So be ready for some DabiHawks posts.
Hii.. been gone a while exams and then Summer then hung out with friends alot but yk,, also.. then yk kinda went back into my MHA phase. Soo.. yk now I have a new huper fixation xxx
Expect gay MHA ships (popular & rareships) posts coming soon ‼️
Jirou is so Hayley Kiyoko circa 2011 Lemonade Mouth
Volume 36 - extra
Keigo and Touya as teens, because in my head they're happy and safe together
The bnha phase has come back like an old friend
More oc shit, might makes a weird family tree to show how everyone’s related but until then here’s Mikan
"No, it's okay babe, I'm just tired."
I had something better in mind to draw, but work drained all willpower from me so I went with this half-assed Hawks I doodled on a lunch break. I need a second job apart from my full time one and honestly dunno how am I going to make it. I'll draw you Dabi next time, hopefully. Right now I'm just ehh.
I’m having yuri thoughts…
seconds before pro hero hawks eats out pro hero sabi
My baby
My baby
You’re my baby say it to me
Baby
My baby
Tell your baby that I’m your baby
I bet on loosing dogs
I know they’re loosing and I’ll pay for my place by the ring
Chapter 299 - Like Those Tragic Tales
ok i’m back in my hawks stan era again
TRADE REQUEST!!!
I RECEIVE BOOPS YOU RECEIVE BOOPS AND MEMES/PICS OF FICTION MEN!!!
I was born and raised in Undertale, I know what I’m pickin’
Your exploration of the building rooftop has led you to an unexpected encounter with the wing villain Hawks!! What will you do?